Flying False Colours
by Mayhem O'Malley
Summary: James has escaped his dishonorable life as a pirate and he is glad to be an Admiral, however much his dreams tell him otherwise. But as Beckett maneuvers to rule the seas, Grace disturbs the calm before the storm...and the truth about her own past isn't far behind. Sequel to The Smuggler and the Scoundrel.
1. Prologue: Yo Ho, All Hands

**A/N**: Welcome to the official start of the sequel! I can't promise I'll be updating regularly since my life is in sort of a transitory state, but I will be making a serious effort to post more often than I did last time around. I still love this story and these characters, and despite the massive disappointment that was AWE, I still love James. That being said, I _will_ be following the events of AWE, just rather obliquely. Since James was not involved in much of the filmed story, this leaves me a lot of room to play with what went on before the film and in the gaps. After a certain point, this story will become technically AU. All of your questions about Grace will also be answered, and expect some interaction between Grace and some other (in)famous ladies of the sea that I am super excited to finally write!

The usual disclaimer applies: POTC and all its attendant denizens belong to Disney. Grace, her Glory, her crew, her family, and her story belong to me. I am not making any money off writing this story, nor do I intend to change the names and later market it as pornography for women in their 40s.

(I chose to spell 'Colours' the British way...it just looked wrong in American).

* * *

**Flying False Colours**

**Prologue: Yo Ho, All Hands  
**

* * *

_Where it's wave over wave, sea over bow  
I'm as happy a man as the sea will allow.  
There's no other life for a sailor like me  
Than to sail the salt sea, boys, to sail the sea.  
There's no other life but to sail the salt sea._**  
**

* * *

There would be a storm that night. The air was heavy with it; the pennants hung listless from the masts and the usual bustle and rumble of town business was swallowed up in a hot and deadened hush. Another night, another storm.

In all her years at sea Grace could not remember such a run of foul weather as this. She watched from the window of her room as the harbor grew grey, churning and frothing against the moorings.

_Angry water. But no wind._

No wind. All these tempests and yet there was no wind to stir them. Even lubbers like Isaac, just arrived unexpected from Boston that morning, couldn't fail to notice but it was not the impossible storms that had driven her to ground. There were strange tales on the seas these days, strange enough that she could no longer pretend they didn't tug at her superstitions.

The _Black Pearl _was lost, ran the whispers, lost and her captain taken to the Locker.

_A fitting end._

It was no surprise to anyone that Jack Sparrow had at last met his fantastic demise, and in a fashion so prone to wild rumor. Some said he had dove into the maw of the Kraken to retrieve his hat, others that he had clung to the mast of his beloved _Pearl _and wept like a newborn babe. Others still claimed a she-devil from the deep had chained him to his ship like Andromeda to be devoured without a fight. All agreed it was Davy Jones who had taken him at last. But there were other tales, and it was those other tales that had driven the men of the _Glory_ to beg her for harbor and for her to gladly comply.

Grace had not returned to Tortuga since that night-she felt a sudden tightness in her lungs and held her breath on the memories-but even on the sea she could read the signs. Not long after leaving Tortuga she had begun to see it: ships beached and abandoned on water islands, flotsam and jetsom bobbing more thickly in the waves with tell-tale sharks teeming below. It was a matter of course for the _Glory_ to cross waves with a pirate or three, but as the weeks wore on Grace saw fewer and fewer black flags on the masts and more and more of the spidery triangle that was the East India Trading Company.

"Will it storm badly tonight?"

Grace turned from the window and mustered a weak smile for her cousin. "Yes," she said. "But the _Glory_ is a strong girl and Richard a capable man. He'll see her through the night."

Isaac joined her at the window, his own eyes fixed on the harbor. Grace had seen very little of him since his surprise arrival that morning and that was as unnatural as the waves. The man standing beside her, eyes red-rimmed and his lips pressed thin, was a husk of the one she had seen just five months ago. He was going grey at the temples, she noticed.

_He's far too young for that._

"Isaac, what are you doing here?" she asked. "I didn't think you the sort of man to run from fatherhood."

Isaac turned from the window. "No, no,he said, seating himself at the edge of her dressing chair and leaning over with his hands on his knees. "My God, Grace, I didn't want to leave her, not with the child so close."

Grace knelt in front of him, forgetting her disguise's decorum and wrenching her heavy skirts free of her legs. She took his hands and he gripped them back tight, a drowning man's grip.

"Why are you here, Isaac?" she asked again.

"I had no choice. I-", he began, but his voice choked and he coughed to get the words out. "Do you recall when last you were in port? I asked you an unusual question..."

"You asked me about Davy Jones," Grace said, unable to keep the hush from her voice or the chill from her blood. That was an ill name at any time, but an ill name she'd heard resounding in terrified whispers from here to the coast of Barbary over the past months. In the harbor below, the breaking of the strange waves grew louder.

Isaac's eyes were wide, sunken in dark half-moons. Had he slept at all? "Grace, dear cousin," he said and kissed her hands, still clutched tight in his. He whispered something against her fingers, a word she had not thought to hear again ever in her life.

_No! Damn you, damn you, damn you! _

She tore her hands away and jolted to her feet, stumbling a bit over her hem and heeled shoes. "Do not use that name again, Isaac. Not ever," she said. She took a slow breath; for the first time in years, she felt faint. Even in a whisper, the name was like knives and dust.

_My name._

Out on the harbor, the ship bells were ringing.

"Grace, please!" Isaac said from behind her. "Either I'm going mad or..."

Grace spun back to face him, her heart suddenly in her throat. "What did you see?"

"A ship," Isaac said, his voice hoarse. "Huge, with...with _teeth_. It appeared...it _seemed_ to appear from beneath the waves. But that's impossible. It's impossible, isn't it? It must be."

Grace closed her eyes, the roar of the waves below filling the blackness and Isaac's stunned ramblings drifted away into the sound of them. She could picture it clearly still. One hand on the wheel, still bloody. Scratching tears and sweat from her face with the other as she turned for one last look...and the spray and the masts that appeared just there between blue and blue. She'd told herself after it had been a trick of her tears in the fading light, but she had always known that she'd lied.

"You're not mad, Isaac," she said, and her voice sounded hollow, echoing in her own ears. "Though in the end you may find you would have preferred it."

Grace opened her eyes to look at her cousin, but instead of turning to Isaac she found herself drawn to the window. The flags still hung dead, but the waves were so loud! Louder than she'd ever heard. They crashed like a gale, and yet there was no gale. She was dimly aware of Isaac's hands gripping her arms, dimly aware that she was leaning out the window, pulled by some tide in her blood. And over the phantom crash of the waves with no wind, she heard it. Thin and wailing from over the boiling sea on the horizon's edge of hearing.

A song.

* * *

**A/N:** Next Chapter- Cutler Beckett throws a reception in honor of his new Admiral


	2. Most Wickedly I Did, As I Sailed

**A/N: **Some of you may remember this as the teaser chapter from a while back. Here it is in full! Also, the final scene of this chapter is the scene that inspired the entire story, both this one and _The Smuggler and the Scoundrel._ I came home from seeing the DMC midnight show with a friend, and as I was falling asleep that scene came to me. I knew nothing about Grace other than her name and that she knew James from his time between the first two films. The dialogue has changed very little.

* * *

**Flying False Colours**

**Chapter One: Most Wickedly I Did, As I Sailed**

* * *

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

It was unceasing.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Breathing in. Breathing out. His hands shook.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

The ascot was choking and his coat was too wide for his frame. Or maybe he was too thin? Food no longer tasted as he remembered it.

_Thump-thump._

He raised a shaking hand to a face that was too clean, too smooth to belong to the man looking out from the green eyes he saw in the glass. There was a rage there still, a lawlessness.

_Thump-thump._

It hadn't gone, as he had hoped it would. The laughing wildness was there still, waiting in the quirk of his smile. Would it ever go? Would he ever wake one morning to see the man he had been gazing out at him?

_Thump-thump._

Did he want to?

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

His heart hammered against a dry throat. His heart. Just his, beating on unceasing and alone, relieved of its echo.

_Thump-thump._

He loathed his heartbeat now.

James turned from the mirror. He wanted to break it, shatter himself into uncountable pieces to be swept up and forgotten. He stared around his study without seeing, the fading light casting strange shadows on the unread rows of books. It was nearly time.

He quaffed off his brandy and poured himself another. Was it the third? He tilted the bottle; surely it wasn't the fourth? It could have been the first for all he felt. There was a dim unease in knowing that. He would need something more to put him out tonight, something that was enough to drown his dreams and brandy wasn't it.

His dreams were different these days, since his first night as a redeemed man. For so long his nights had been taken with wind and rain and death in a howling gale, but now...now _She_ was there. She with her soft, spiced lips and her hair that smelled of gunpowder and sea spray. She curled beside him and he dreamed of waves, her hands mapping the tides across his chest. She smiled at him, bare breasted, from astride his hips and her nails scraped his flesh. She smiled as the skin burst beneath her Siren's claws, blood welling in rivulets down his ribs. She smiled as her fingers sank through, deep, deep down to grip the bones. She smiled as they splintered and a purring shuddered down from her throat as she clutched the hot, pulsing thing at his core and clenched it tight. It tore from his chest and lay pulsing weakly in her blood-slick hands like a dying bird. He could feel himself laughing even as hot tears stained his face, weeping and hysterical as the soft blue of Grace's eyes bled black, her skin flushed a tawny rum-brown and her hair writhed into a wild, dark tangle. She leered at him, shark's eyes devouring him as her fingers tightened around his heart. "For what we want most," she said, and his heart dissolved in a slow wash of sea water.

The brandy was gone, but Grace's eyes remained, burning the accusation into his marrow until his pulse pounded the word.

_Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. _

She was the face of it. It was Elizabeth and Turner he had betrayed—and Sparrow, too, he supposed—but it was Grace's eyes that judged him guilty and Grace's hands that tore out his heart each night. He moved to draw a hand through his hair, but his fingers met the stiff edge of a wig and clenched into a fist. Every move restricted, strangled.

_You do not want this._

His fist struck the window frame. Was he really so easily bought? An empty rank was a poor thirty pieces of silver. Was that all it took?

_Traitor. Traitor. Traitor._

The rapping on his door sounded too much like gallows drums for his liking.

"Come," he said, slipping the brandy glass back into the place it had so seldom left before; it had a much increased call to duty these days. He looked up to see Lieutenant Groves hovering uncertain in the doorway.

"The carriage is here, Sir," he said.

"That uniform looks revolting on you, Theo," James replied.

A hint of Theo's honest smile pricked his face. "It doesn't suit you so well, either," he said.

James smoothed his hands nervously over the uniform; the cloth felt oily.

_Blue and yellow...Bleeding Christ!_

"Let's get this over and done with, shall we?" he said and strode through the door.

He could feel Theo following silently at his heels like an obedient dog. His deference felt unnatural, but once inside the carriage it was stifling. The air was thick with unasked and avoided questions, but for all the quips he was prone to making, Groves was a good soldier and would never speak his mind unless asked. James could feel the beginnings of a headache pressing his temples.

"What is it, Groves?" he said.

"Nothing, sir," the Lieutenant answered far too quickly, his eyes fixed on some distant point past James' head.

James sighed. "How long have you been under my command, Lieutenant?"

"Six years, sir."

"I would think that after those six years you would know there's no use lying to me. I'll ask you again: What is it you have to say?"

Groves' eyes twitched from their fixation on the carriage wall. "It would be insubordinate, sir."

James felt as though some taut line cracked inside his head. "Christ, Theo!" he barked. "Speak your mind!"

Finally, Groves looked at him but his expression remained stoic. "Is that an order, sir?"

"Must it be?" James asked in return. "We were friends once, Theo. Weren't we?"

"Yes, we were friends."

"Then as a friend, say what you've to say to me."

James had not served with Theodore Groves so long as he had with Andrew Gillette, God rest his infernal Irish soul, but still he could read the man. Theo was angry and he was barely hiding it.

"You are one of the finest officers a man could hope to serve," he said. "You always had an ear for my advice. For Andrew's advice."

James' throat felt horribly dry and he resisted the urge to order the coachman to look lively and step to. He could feel where this was heading and the prospect of facing it without a glass in hand was a bleak one.

"There's been talk," Groves continued. "Everyone knew about the storm soon enough. Some thought you were dead."

"Did you?" James asked.

"No, sir," Groves said. " I never believed it. Every man of us prayed to see the _Dauntless_ on the horizon when the fighting began. The pirates were bolder from the day you sailed."

"But you held them off."

"Aye, sir," Groves said. In another life, his voice might have had the warmth of pride, but that was a life long gone to dust. "But at a higher cost than ever we would have paid with you at the helm."

_Four hundred and thirty four souls..._

"I'm not so certain of that, Theo," James said.

"No," Theo said. "Neither am I."

_Ah. Now we come to it._

"You were a brilliant commander, James," he continued. "I don't know that you realized it, the loyalty you could inspire. The pride. Sailing under you, a man felt like a god. Andrew idolized you. We all did."

_Christ, I need a drink._

"I used to wonder whether you noticed, but I know now. Of course you noticed! How could you not, the way we fawned over you?"

"Theo—"

"I know what happened out there, _sir_," Theo spat. "I know exactly even if no one else does. You couldn't _miss_ a storm of that size and neither would Andrew. The bloody _powder monkies_ couldn't miss it! No, _you saw it_ and Andrew saw it. He tried to make you see reason, didn't he? How long did he beg you? Hours? And you, so desperate for glory, for vengeance for whatever other excuse you like, it doesn't matter because _Andrew is dead_. Andrew and all the others and for what? For you and your..._legacy_?"

The tirade ended, replaced by the rattle and clop of horse and carriage. James exhaled the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and when he spoke his voice had a leaden deadness to it.

"Will that be all, Lieutenant?"

Groves looked at him, sharp as a blade, and James was sure he caught the sheen of tears on the other man's eyes. Andrew had been a close friend to the m both, and he couldn't begrudge Groves his mourning; he couldn't manage even that anymore. He could see in Groves' face that he had hoped a great deal to be reassured that his rage was baseless, that the god-like commander he had followed into so many battles over the years had not failed him and failed their sailor's trust.

_But I did. I failed them and I failed you._

"Yes, sir," Groves said.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, each man lost in his own maelstrom, one just imagining and oen reliving, white-knuckled.

_Lord_ Cutler Beckett had naturally commandeered the governor's mansion for the evening's festivities, considering the man still had not vacated James' quarters at the fort. James had instead moved into the small house he had kept before but seldom used, preferring as he had to be nearer his ships and his work. If the hideous things Beckett had done to his map were any indication, his Lordship intended to remain in residence for the foreseeable eternity. That had been his first hint that Beckett was not, in fact, a man of similar character to himself. The fort map had been painted there in God only knew what year. The colors were fading, the coast lines long since proved innaccurate, but James had been fond of it with its fantastically mishapen continents and depictions of sea monsters that were more whimsical than they were alarming. When he had returned to Port Royal a year ago after crossing blades with corpses, those empty expanses and roving beasts had taken on a new vibrance that stirred the adventuring boy in him. Seeing that map filled in, rigid and graphed, the creatures of the deep obscured by ships of trade after having seen the denizens of the saddest Hell with his own eyes and with the beating heart of a legend in his hand, he had decided then and there that he did not like this chillingly efficient man sitting at _his_ desk, dwarfed by _his_ chair.

He liked him even less now, holding court as he was in the governor's parlour. James was surprised to see Governo Swann himself standing beside Beckett, smiling and shaking hands, and he wondered if they would be able to find a moment to talk in all this nonsense. He had not seen Governor Swann at all since his return to civilized life; rumor was he had been ill. Thinner and more pallid than James remembered, he certainly looked as though he had been.

"Ah, and here we have the man of the hour!" Beckett said, not bothering to extend a hand. "Your timing is most suberb, Admiral. It is just now time for dinner."

James was hastily ushered forward into the dining room, but not before he noticed the governor had made a motion as if to greet him himself.

James had many fond memories of evenings spent in the Swann's dining room. In his life before, he had been something of a fixture at dinner times. Every so often a visiting noble or exceptional merchant would join them, but the governor's household was a small one and it had often just been the three of them; himself, the governor, and Elizabeth.

It had happened right here in this room. One fine autumn evening that seemed an eternity past, he had told a story that had been a trifle too coarse for a lady's ears. Before the governor could reprimand him or he could apologize for his offense, Elizabeth had laughed; a merry laugh, like sleighbells.

_The first stumble of a long fall._

Less than a year later, the seal on his promotion orders barely broken, he had approached the governor with his hat in his hands and asked for his blessing were his lovely daughter with her chiming laugh to accept his hand in marriage.

_And she did. For a day. For a price._

James found himself very concerned all of a sudden with the empty state of his glass.

"Welcome, friends," Beckett said in that unctuous voice of his from the head of the table. "Before we begin, let us thank Governor Swann for so graciously opening his home for our convenience."

The assembled guests applauded, James only half-heartedly when he saw the governor's strained smile.

_Something's rotten in the state of Denmark._

"We are here tonight to celebrate the investiture of an enterprise that has been a lifetime in the making," Beckett continued and James noticed with an inner sigh of relief that the servants had begun mercifully filling wine glasses. "This enterprise would never have been possible without the considerable talents of my oldest colleague, Mr. Isaac Braddock."

Beckett paused to begin an applause and the man to James' right inclined his head in appreciation.

"And of course, this dream of mine, this dream of the King's, would never have come to reality were it not for the steadfast service and dedication of your own Admiral James Norrington."

James found it in himself to smile passably and give a quick nod, but his neck felt stiff and the knowing smirk on Beckett's face was setting his guts to boiling. _'I know what you were,'_ that smirk said. _'Never forget it.'_

_As if I could forget anything._

Beckett droned on, some drivel about glory for King and Company and James felt a pressure beginning to build inside his head. He was horribly thirsty, but Beckett was clearly preparing for a toast and so his just-filled glass sat waiting while he bit his tongue and tried to keep from fidgeting.

Aside from Groves, the governor, and his Lordship, there was not a familiar face at the table. They were Beckett's associates and cronies all, lords of commerce and their glittering, hawk-eyed ladies. It was a small gathering, but their apparent self-importance could have crowded the nave of Saint Paul's.

"And so if you will join me, let us raise our glasses to the King and the the prosperity of his empire: To good business!"

James intoned the words with the rest of the strangers and managed to take only a somewhat more substantial swallow than was polite. His reaction was harder to suppress.

_What in blazing Hell?_

It was not wine. It looked like wine, tasted a great deal like it even, but it was not. Glancing around, James saw no expressions of puzzlement, heard no polite but curious inquiries as to the identity of this fine, if strange, refreshment. Either this was a drink all the other guests were accustomed to or only his glass was affected; the way Beckett's eyes flickered towards him gave him the feeling it was the latter. The room was beginning to feel rather warm.

"Admiral Norrington," said a voice to his right. "Formerly Commodore, I presume?"

James turned to the man—Braddock, Beckett had called him. He seemed on an age to himself, perhaps a little older even judging by the sprays of frost in his tawny hair, and there was a jovial set to his features that gave him an likeable demeanor.

"A correct presumption," James said. "Have we met before this?"

"No, never," the man said. "We've not even been properly introduced, thought I can hardly fault Cutler for the breach. He's a busy man these days. Isaac Braddock, agent of the East India Trading Company at your service."

"Pleased to make your aquaintance, Mr. Braddock," James said.

Though not so pleased in your choice of friends.

"Please, Admiral, call me Isaac. I insist," he said. "I've such little patience with formalities. Comes of living too long in the Colonies."

"Are you certain we have not met before, even in passing?" James asked. There was a nagging familiarity about this man.

"Quite impossible, I'm afraid," Isaac said. "The only time I have spent in Port Royal until now you were...out of port."

"I take your meaning well enough," James said and tried to occupy himself with his meal. Not so long ago just the thought of a meal like this would have had his mouth watering, but now his stomach seemed to have shriveled and the lamb that was so tender under his knife turned to dust on his tongue. A servant leaned in to refill his glass; he hadn't even noticed it was empty. He sipped at it—more wine that was not wine. A dull pain was beginning to pound between his eyes. He glanced up to the head of the table where Beckett was listening with politic politeness to an enthusiastic litany from a formidable looking matriarch in widow's black. Without seeming to divert his attention from her, the runtish lord tipped his glass to him and smiled a shark's smile. James returned the gesture. Whatever game it was Beckett was playing with him, he could hold his own.

_Can I, really?_

"If I may beg your indulgence for a moment, Admiral," Isaac said. "There is a certain matter I wish to discuss with you."

"A matter of some delicacy, it would seem," James said.

"Quite," Isaac said. "I am a man of two strict loyalties, Admiral. First to my family and second to my work. I am certain a man such as yourself can relate."

_Traitor. Traitor. Traitor._

"Of course."

"No doubt you are aware that a warrant was issued for your arrest in connection with an incident which took place last year?"

_Last year? Has it been a year?_

"I was aware of that, yes," James said, forcing thoughts of who had first borne him that news to the recesses of his mind.

"It was I who issued it," Isaac said. "The Company tasked me with investigating the Sparrow incident and I found you complicit."

James managed to keep his voice level. "And why did you feel it necessary to tell me this?"

"Because now that we are colleagues, Admiral, I wish you to know it was not a decision made lightly or out of any personal grudge of morality," Isaac said. "I made it in the best interests of the Company, as I make all such decisions. Whatever the unforeseen consequences."

Was it his imagination or did Isaac's eyes flicker towards their host for just a moment? James was suddenly aware of the sleepless shadows beneath his new colleague's eyes.

"I bear you no ill will, Isaac," he said and Isaac seemed honestly relieved. "You spoke of two loyalties...do they two never conflict?"

Isaac smiled, a wry half-smile that was sharply familiar. "Ah," he said. "I have an adage, Admiral. Blood is thicker than water, more precious than gold."

"It must afford you a great deal of surety," James said. "I envy you."

"How do you mean?" Isaac asked, but at that moment Beckett stood and announced it was time to go through to the ballroom for the evening's entertainment.

The governor's ballroom was not small, but the music and the shrill laughter and the swirling skirts made it stifling. Apparently though dinner had been a quiet affair, all of Port Royal society had been invited to dance in Beckett's new dawn of commerce.

James had enjoyed dancing in his life before. He had liked the precision of it and how much simpler it was to communicate his thoughts to a lady through a firmer grasp on her hand or spinning her with more abandon. It was easier than words and much more honest. Now, he wanted nothing to do with such honesty. He felt the heat of curious eyes that tried and failed to go unnoticed. He stood beside Beckett and shook hands and kissed fingers of strangers and old acquaintances alike, every greeting masking the same unspoken questions:

"_Where has he been? Why is he returned? Is the entirely well?"_

"It would seem the mysterious manner of your return has caused something of a stir in the hearts of the eligible ladies," Beckett said. James had not failed to notice; the fluttering of their fans as he bent to kiss their hands was a blessedly cool breeze. "You ought to avail yourself of this opportunity, Admiral," he continued. "A man in your position could have his choice of the beauties."

James glanced at a cadre of the creatures in question. Some he knew, others were strangers, most fell to fits of giggles, peeking over the edges of fans that beat like hummingbird wings.

"I find I am rather less eager for a wife than I have been previously, my lord," he said.

"Yes, yes, of course," Beckett said. "My apologies, Admiral."

James grit his teeth and continued shaking hands and trading idle pleasantries but he could feel his resolve eroding. The pounding in his head had only worsened since dinner and he could feel trickles of sweat itching on the back of his neck.

"Ah, Isaac, my friend, welcome back! You've met our good Admiral, I believe?"

"I have, indeed," Isaac said, shaking his hand in the first truly sincere greeting James had been afforded all evening. "And may I present to you my cousin, Miss Josephine Braddock, from Boston."

James bent to kiss the lady's hand as he had uncounted times that night. His lips met black lace and an unmistakable scent rushed over him.

Gunpowder.

_Black lace. Gunpowder. A red dress too red at the hem._

"I am very pleased to meet you, Admiral."

The dress was deep blue, not red, and high-collared. The voice was too high and timid, the deportment too shrinking, the North Sea eyes to wide and gentle. But there was no mistaking her features and the black lace gloves that smelled of gunpowder.

_Grace!_

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Braddock," he managed to say. He was staring. He knew he was staring and he couldn't care. Grace _here_ of all places! Seeing him like _this_. He was suddenly horribly conscious of the ridiculousness that was formal uniform attire. She had seen him in the lowest of states and yet he felt far more embarrassed of himself now than he ever had over a bout of drunken idiocy on her ship.

_What is she doing here?_

"My dear Miss Braddock," Beckett was saying, clasping her hands. "When Isaac told me you had accompanied him I could scarce believe it. It is so very good to see you again."

_Again? Again? When was before?_

"Thank you, Lord Beckett," Grace said in a voice so soft and tremulous James could almost believe her fragility. "It was...time, I thought."

_Look at me, damn you! Why are you here?_

"Is this your first time in Port Royal, Miss Braddock?" he asked, hoping for the hint of a smile, a knowing look, a sly reference, _anything_ to acknowledge that _she_ was here and _he_ was here, but her eyes grew even wider and she took a short gasp of breath as though shocked.

"Yes, Admiral, it is," she said. "I...I do not..._sail_ much."

There was terror in her eyes, James realized. Honest, unfeigned terror that he had never seen in her before. It was so unfamiliar coupled with everything else that doubt began to nag him. Was this really Grace at all? Or truly some spun-glass waif from Boston to whom she bore a resemblance so uncanny they would have to be twins?

_No, damn it! I know it's you!_

"Miss Braddock, would you do me the honor of a dance?" he asked as he heard the opening strains of an allemande; a close dance, perfect for discreet conversation.

She took another of those short gasps and Isaac seemed to support her for a moment.

"Do you feel well enough, cousin?" he said.

"Yes, Isaac," she said and smiled very cautiously. "Yes, I think so."

James extended his hand to her and she rested hers in it with barely more pressure than a songbird, as though she feared he wouldn't release her. He had the sense that her whole being was hovering on tip-toe, poised like a deer who's scented the hounds to bolt at any provocation. They took their places and as the music began he bowed, eyes never leaving her face. She curtsied back, never once looking at his.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed as he pulled her into the first turn.

"Oh, I—I am here with my cousin, sir," she answered, still in that breathless voice, still with no hint of recognition. She turned him under her arm, now.

"Grace, please. Stop this!"

"Pardon me for the correction, Admiral," she said. "My name is Josephine."

James bit back his frustrated retort, knowing that if he pushed her too far in this persona she would likely shriek or faint or something more creative of equal disturbance. Their hands linked behind their backs and James suppressed a grin. She could cover her scars and soften her sailor's hands in lace, but no layers of silk and stays and cotton or dainty behavior could rid her of the sea-sculpted strength in her arms.

"Of course, miss. My apologies," he said. "It is just that you remind me very much of a lady I once knew."

She said nothing as they spun through the final rosette. He kissed her fingers once more as he bowed, but gripped them tight as she tried to pull away. She made a tiny sound, a kittenish whimper.

"Yes, you remind me of her very much," he said. "You are both so very good at lies."

She whipped her hand from his and gave him an unsteady curtsy. She allowed him to escort her from the floor but averted her eyes from him and all but collapsed into Isaac's arms.

"I am sorry, Isaac, I do think I have rather overtaxed myself in the dance," she breathed. "I hope his Lordship and the Admiral would not find me rude were I to take my leave?"

"Not at all, my dear," Beckett said, kissing her hands. "We shall have a quieter gathering just for your pleasure very soon."

"Thank you, my lord," she said, and turned to James. "Thank you for the dance, Admiral. It was most kind of you."

James nodded and then she and Isaac were gone, swallowed up in the cacophony of merrymakers. He wanted to follow her. He wanted to shake her and rattle the lace and the pearls and the wide-eyed fear right off her. It was his captain he wanted to see, not this timid mouse of a society lady whose name she wore like an actor's frock.

"An extraordinary creature, is she not?" came Beckett's silky voice from below his left shoulder. "To have been through such trials and horrors. No doubt you noticed her crippling humility; I'm afraid you've quite turned her head, the poor thing."

To James' surprise, there was no hint of smugness or mockery in Beckett's tone. By all accounts he felt genuine pity for this character of Grace's invention and James couldn't help but be a little pleased at the completeness of her ruse, though what end it served in her illegal exploits he couldn't guess.

"Forgive me, Lord Beckett," he said. "But I do not believe I am aware of the history of the lady in question."

"Ah, you have not heard of Miss Braddock? Her story is most exciting and unfortunate, not so unlike what transpired here involving another young lady of good breeding," Beckett said. James didn't need to look down to know Beckett was giving him one of those sidelong smirks, watching for even the smallest reaction to his careful barbs. James clenched his hands behind his back to stop their trembling.

"The story goes," Beckett continued. "That she was booked passage to the Colonies when the ship was savagely commandeered by pirates. The lady herself was held, presumably for ransom though no notice was ever delivered, and God only knows what other unspeakable uses. The pirates were hunted of course, but to no avail. She was given up for dead until one day she appeared at Nassau, raving mad, naturally. Nearly four years captive, can you imagine? She's not been seen in these parts since. Isaac keeps her in comfort, in a country house of his I understand. It is rather a tragic tale, Admiral. I'm surprised you were unaware of it."

"It is familiar in some respects, but it must have been before my time," James said. The story did ring a bell or two. Some local gab about an improbable rescue only a few weeks after a stalwart and zealous young lieutenant had arrived in Port Royal with the governor to begin his rise to glory and fame.

_What a damn bloody fool he turned out to be._

"Begging pardon, my lord," he said. "But I believe it is time I took my leave as well." 'Miss Braddock' had vanished, and James' last vestiges of composure and patience had vanished with her.

"Ah, Admiral, so soon?" Beckett said, his voice more like oily silk than ever. "This fine night is yet young and brimming with potential."

The night could be as young as it pleased; he was painfully thirsty and the pounding in his head was edging towards unbearable.

"I thank you for your generous hospitality, my lord," he said. "But truth be told, I have never been fond of events such as these. I find I much prefer the quiet of my study."

Beckett smiled indulgently. "Of course, Admiral, of course. Far be it from me to deter a dutiful man such as yours elf form applying his energies where most needed. I bid you goodnight."

James bowed and had to mind himself not to let a habitual languidness creep into the motion. Ducking behind a group or two of revelers he managed to escape the sweltering hall unnoticed.

_The guest of honor goes missing and they all keep dancing._

It was only when he was halfway home in the blissfully quiet carriage that he realized he had not told Groves he was leaving. It didn't bother him more than fleetingly; the man wouldn't have come and James' head was a hurricane of need for drink and thoughts of Grace. And a latent need for her, too, if he was honest.

It had been months since Tortuga, months and leagues and treacheries. And he had been coping. He dreamed and he drank until he was empty, but he was functioning. He walked, he talked, he wore the uniform. What else was there?

_Toy soldier on strings...Damn her!_

His thirst and his head and his thoughts had put him in a foul mood. The blank state he worked so hard to maintain was gone, splintered like so much wood in a broadside. He began tearing off his absurd uniform as soon as the door latched behind him, leaving a trail of false honor to his study until he was stripped of all but his own shirt and breeches. He even kicked his shoes to unknown dark corners. He managed to light a candle and faced himself in the mirror. The reflection was abhorrent. He tore the wig from his head and flung it, too, into the darkness; he had never liked the bloody things anyway. He'd cut his hair when he regained his life, he'd had to for the blasted wig, but it was longer than he'd kept it before and it was a mess now. A mess just like the rest of him. He drew back a fist to crush the man he saw in the mirror, but at the last moment he snarled and tore open his desk cabinet instead. He reached in for the bottle of rum he kept there, but his hand met nothing. He couldn't have finished it already?

"I'm impressed, James. From scoundrel to admiral in so short a time. I congratulate you."

There it was. There was the voice he knew, lower than most women and that hint of strange music. He sighed, laughing a little, but didn't look up to see her. He stared down at the shambles of his desk as if he could find some sense in the mess of maps and forms.

_What would I see this time?_

"Have you come to kill me, Captain?" he asked. Liability to her as he was now, he couldn't quite bring himself to blame her.

"Hardly. And you needn't call me captain. Or have you forgotten?" came the reply from the shadows behind him.

_Yellow hair on a blue coat. Strong arms and quiet words after a dream. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor._

Forgotten? How could he forget?

"Leave, Grace," he said. "Before I have to arrest you."

She laughed and finally he looked at her. The timidity was gone, replaced by the boldness that belonged there. Even without pistols on her hips, dressing the lady lent her an air of hypnotic detachment that was almost reptilian. And yet for all her presence had thrown his ballast, a part of him smiled to see her again, even like this.

_Damn her!_

"An empty threat, James," she said. "You can't very well arrest me for piracy when the crown pays me for it. That _is_ your job, is it not? To cleanse the seas of me and my ilk?"

In the dim light from the candle he could see her grinning, mocking. His rank was a sham and she knew it as well as he pretended not to. She was knifing into his doubts, just as she'd always been able to and it was pricking his temper, just as it had before.

"I could tell them about Skinner," he said.

Grace sighed, twirling her fan between her still gloved fingers. "You won't do that any more than you'll arrest me."

"And why not? Out of some misguided sentiment, I suppose?"

James felt the shift in her bearing more than he saw it. She never moved from her position, but the space between them seemed to have shrunk to a crackling proximity. They were at it now, like dogs in the ring, teeth bared and wary to see who would bit first and hardest. He supposed he shouldn't bait her as he was, but she was the invading force here and after months of groveling and blind agreeing he was just longing for an argument, any argument, so long as he could scream.

"Besides having to admit you were my accomplice?" Grace said.

"You deceived me, as you well know," James retorted. "And I've been pardoned of all crimes."

_Traitor. Traitor. Traitor._

"Ah, of course! How foolish of me to forget!" Grace exclaimed, launching back into the timorous Miss Josephine. "By all means, Admiral, make your assertions that this poor, troubled lady is a ruthless smuggler and master of deception!" She scoffed and returned to herself. "All it would be is your word, and who here trusts you enough to take anything on your word alone? You don't even trust yourself, do you?"

"What do you mean by that?" James asked, noticing too late that her smile was too sly. She was up to something and she was talking him right off the plank.

_There are worse fates, I suppose._

"I am merely concerned that you may be experiencing some difficulty in returning so abruptly to your former station," she said.

"And why, pray tell, would I find that so difficult?" James said, ignoring his pulse's phantom echo and swallowing past his thirst.

For a moment Grace seemed to start forward, but her hands clenched in her skirt and her words came out in an uncustomary tumble.

"Because despite yourself you were happy."

James had never prided himself on his understanding of women, but even he was not so dull that he couldn't hear the unspoken 'with me' that remained locked behind her teeth. She was right. He had been happy with her and happy had been the problem. _She _had been the problem, and from the taut stillness in her posture he could see she suspected as much. He could feel the truth on his tongue, his body willing him to fall to her feet and kiss her hands and beg her to liberate him from this sour salvation, but Grove's anger and his grief came back to him and quelled that desperation.

_No. This is your lot now. This._

He forced himself to smile, however thinly, and even managed a bit of a chuckle. "Nonsense, Grace. I am not finding this at all difficult. In fact, it is as if I'd never left."

"Is that so?" Grace said, her eyes narrowing. She plucked a bottle from the bookshelf and gave it a pointed shake. "This begs to differ."

"Put that away!" James snarled, moving towards her, unable to keep the thirst from his voice and he knew she heard it, too.

"Of course," Grace said coolly, but she set the bottle back where she had hidden it. "Mustn't let anyone know the admiral still has a taste for rotgut rum."

James slumped against his desk with a sigh, aware suddenly of his bare feet and shaggy hair and how grotesque his indignation must seem to her. Even from the day they'd met, Grace had been able to unravel his pretenses; a few months and all the Hell he'd seen hadn't changed that.

_Who do you see when you look at me?_

"What is it you want, Grace?" he said.

"Oh, James," Grace said, shaking her head. Finally, at last, she came close to him and James could feel the expanse of every day he had not seen her. "Why must I be here because I want something? Can't it be I just wish to see you?"

She touched him, just a hand on his cheek, the lace of her glove a whisper against his skin, and he did not expect the ache it caused him. True, he had missed her and terribly at times, but he had not thought he missed her quite like this, where a touch so simple and soft could both twist the knife and balm the wound it made.

"Are you so different now from the man on my ship who was such a friend to me?" she asked.

James couldn't meet her eyes. He knew what this was, what it cost her to ask him such a question, to allow him a glimpse of the person behind her many masks. Why did she have to be so honest with him now?

"That man no longer exists," he said. Pushing her hand away and himself away from her.

_He can't exist, not ever again._

He had thought to leave the room, abandon her there in hopes she would simply remove herself the way she'd come, but he hadn't gone two steps when her words stopped him.

_I never can leave a room with her in it._

"You're angry with me."

_No. _

"Yes," he said. It wasn't a lie, not completely.

"_You're_ angry with _me_," Grace said again, and the bitterness was almost palatable. "You have no right to be."

_I know. I know. It's a fool's anger, just let me feel it and be done!_

"Oh, I think I do," James said, turning back to face her and however misguided he knew his rage to be, it filled him all the same. It was better than guilt; easier to bear when sober.

"Don't give me that! Don't even dare! It was you who left me in case you've forgotten!" Grace said, charging towards him, and James wondered briefly if she would hit him. "I looked for you," she said, and James felt the air to out of him as though she had indeed knocked him flat. "Oh, yes. I looked for you. Where did you go? Did you find some whore to please you better?"

And the dam he had tried to build crumbled. Despair or rage or something far worse than either overcame him and he had her by the shoulders, shaking her and screaming.

"What do you want from me? What do you want from me, Grace, what?" he said, unsure whether he was accusing her or begging her. It didn't matter as long as she heard, as long as she knew. "What can I say to you? I was losing myself in your world, in _you." _He stopped shaking her, but his hands gripped her more tightly as if he could will understanding in through her flesh. "And I wanted it. My God, I wanted it. But I couldn't become that, I couldn't!"

He expected her to tear out of his grasp and scream back at him or walk away from him without a word, but all she did was look at him. She looked at him and James saw a sadness there he had never seen before, not even the night she had sobbed in his arms.

"But that _was_ you already," she said.

She was right. He had always known. Or was she? Denials and affirmations were spinning in his pounding head, tangling up with apologies and declarations he could never make. He voiced none of them, but Grace saw their shadows as she always did.

"I know you, James. I know you better than you know yourself," she said and then she was kissing him. Finally. Again, after so long. He pulled her into him, hungrier for her or for the rum he tasted on her lips he couldn't say. As suddenly as the kiss had begun it ended, and in a blink she had seemed to cross the room to the door where she paused.

"Goodnight, Admiral," she said. "We shall see each other again before long, I trust."

And she was gone.

James stood where she had left him, dumbfounded and disheveled, until he heard the street door open and close and the silence following that ripple of a sound was deafening. Mind reeling, he moved to the bookshelf to retrieve the bottle of rum and with a numb jolt realized it had been emptied by more than a few hearty mouthfuls. But no matter...she had left him just enough.

* * *

**A/N: Chapter one down! It turned out a good bit longer than I expected, but I'm glad I finally got to write this scene out in full. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be ready since it doesn't have as clear of an outline as this one did, but I will be plugging away at it steadily.**

**Chapter Two: Grace's acting skills are tested. Thoroughly.**


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